


Babe in the Woods

by blushingliars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Not necessarily a happy ending, Other, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2745374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blushingliars/pseuds/blushingliars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam goes out drinking alone and ends up regretting it in ways he could never imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Babe in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nwspaprtaxis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/gifts).



The air smells damp, fresh. Green.

The scent swims to Sam through the soft fog of disappearing sleep and breaches the surface of his rippling mind like a cork bobbing upwards, tiny in a great body of water. The crystalline sounds of birdsong are all around him, but distant and sporadic, drifting in and out of range. Sam drags his eyes open, and the effort it takes … _shit_. This isn’t right, but then neither was the cloying sweetness in his whiskey last night. Thought it was just the fact he was drinking the cheap stuff; he knew he should’ve stuck with the beer. In bottles. It’s tougher to slip pills or powders into the neck of a Bud than into a tumbler. Too late to lament the choice now.

His mouth tastes like booze and dirt and trouble as he runs his tongue over his lips. Dappled sun breaks through his lashes in bursts. He tries to move but his limbs are leaden and though he is technically awake, he can’t seem to will himself out of the vertigo that comes in strangely gentle waves. This should be worrying him, and certainly would’ve worried him if he could’ve worked up the inclination to care. It was the aftereffect of the roofies that kept him muzzy. Had to be. Dean was gonna kick his ass so hard when he found out how sloppy Sam’d been.

He tries to move his arms again, which are thrown overhead on the mossy earth, but it’s futile. He twitches his fingers and comes to the dull realization that he isn’t paralyzed or drugged into immobility by last night’s big mistake, but restrained. Something pulls under the meat of his palms, circling his wrists. Soft but firm. Cloth.

“H-hey.” His voice works, but just barely.

A shadow passes across his face. Someone—or something, could never rule out a ‘something’ in his line of work—is walking around him, the sound of footfalls on leaves. Something bipedal, Sam supposes. 

It doesn’t speak and Sam shakes his head, trying to get a fistful of brain cells to knock together and fucking work already. His head lolls, but sudden dizziness swells again and warns against anything more energetic, and Sam casually thinks he might throw up. The feeling passes after a moment of stillness.

“Hey, where’m I?” he tries a second time, with a thick tongue.

Another papery rustle of leaves. Soft tuneless humming. Breeze kicks up and makes him shiver, despite the sun, because _Where’s my shirt?_

“Where’s my shirt?”

“Pretty,” says a female voice from somewhere to his left and everywhere at once. Sam wouldn’t call it child-like, exactly, not with that ominous undercurrent. And he definitely wouldn’t call it human, for the very same reason. He knows human when he hears it, and this ain’t it.

He muses and figures now might be a really good time to panic, but he just can’t.

And _pretty_? Not a single one of his shirts could be classified as pretty, unless his kidnapper has a plaid fetish. Wait, he doesn’t have a shirt. He’s covered this already; his shirt is missing in action.

The leaves and twigs snap closer and he can see her now, coming into his peripheral vision. Or her feet, anyway. Bare and dirty, blades of grass and short rips of vine caught between her toes, the nails like talons. She could put an eye out with one of those things.

“I like pretty,” she singsongs and drops to a sudden crouch. She’s wearing his shirt, but little else. Sam startles on the inside even though his body doesn’t flinch.

A waft of musky air hits his face and he knows that if he turns his head, he’ll get an unrestricted view of her crotch. He looks anyway, if only to clarify that she is, indeed, a she. And she is. Bare and musky and smudged with dirt. She doesn’t look familiar; he’s never seen her or her kind before, so he can’t imagine why she saw fit to roofie his whiskey, make off with his shirt and stake his arms to the ground. Okay, yeah he can imagine a reason or two. Like, he’s a hunter and she’s … not human. Her eyes confirm as much. They’re tilted, narrow, colored too light and the pupils too dark. Even loopy on bad medicine, Sam can smell a monster. They’re ... musky.

“ _Pretty_ hurt my tree, though.” She dodges in closer and Sam sees strange, square teeth, a nose that seems too small for her face. She’s not ugly, exactly, but a far cry from Miss America. And she’s not as inhuman or feral as, say, an Ozark howler. She speaks to him in accented English, but the dialect is unrecognizable. Ancient, maybe. If his ears would stop buzzing, he could recognize it.

“What’d I do?” he manages, looking back up at the sunlight dancing in raggedy floaters through the trees.

She shifts again and drops a knee to his chest, forcing out his breath, not quite hard enough to crack bone but it makes him cough.

“You don’t get to take branches from my tree,” she hisses, sliding to straddle him, a knee beneath either armpit. She’s warm and damp and _Jesus,_ Sam wishes she didn’t have her privates rubbing all over his belly. Grinding into his sore ribs. She’s denser than she looks and not gentle; the weight makes his muscles clench and he feels that tightness all the way down his body.

“I’ll, I’ll give ‘em back. Didn’t know they were yours.” Branches, branches. He’d snapped off a few ash twigs a couple of days ago, to burn into powder for anti-black magic hex bags. Seriously, that’s what she’s pissed about?

“But. They. Were.” Narrowing her eyes to little more than cuts in her face, like she can sense his doped-up disdain, she leans forward and slaps a dank palm to his forehead. It pins him tight to ground, and Sam gasps. She lurches over him and spits. Right into his mouth.

It happens so fast Sam can’t hack it out; her other hand slams up under his chin and his teeth clack together, grinding, catching a painful bit of tongue. He attempts to kick, buck her off, but goddamn if his ankles aren’t bound, too. Her hair, a snarled mess that reminds him more of Spanish moss than tresses, hangs in his eyes, clogs his nose. She blows strange breath, hot and pungent, in his face and before he can stop himself, he has swallowed. 

She snorts, satisfied, and rocks back, sitting hard on his gut. Sam tries to curl up in an unthinking response to the pressure, protecting his tender innards. His tongue is getting numb fast. Whatever she spat into him leaves a honeyed taste in his mouth and his brain fumbles gamely for her species, her monstrous designation. Nymph maybe? But neither he nor Dean have ever actually confronted one, and his knowledge of the creature is limited to legend and hearsay ... a knowledge that is gradually leeching into dullness as the toxin works through his body.

Sam makes a last attempt to squirm, out of some vestigial rebellion, whatever rope she’s used on his ankles and wrists still holding firm. She plays her hands through his hair and sneers at his sad effort. A tingling fuzziness is crawling down his throat, pooling warmth in the pit of his stomach just beneath where she’s sitting. Sweat and fever blooms across his skin, signaling fight or flight, but it’s as useless as a knife in a gunfight. Just makes him queasy with the flutter of panic. The air he tries to suck into his lungs is almost too thick to breathe.

“Yes, you’ll give them back,” she says but he’s not following her conversation, it’s not making sense. The thick air is infecting his brain.

She scoots back, dragging over his body until she’s perched on his thighs, some big humanoid bird of prey. He can’t hold his head up any longer and flops back, stares at the light through the trees, all lens-flare bright and dancing cut facets. There’s the jangle of a belt buckle, his zipper being tugged, and Sam feels the scrape of his jeans pulled down his hips, over his dick. _Jesus, no. What the hell._

She’s humming tunelessly, like this is commonplace—he feels the vibrations through his thighs; how the hell can she be humming right now?—and abruptly her hands are all over him, skittering across his collarbone and nipples and down his ribs, just light enough to make his skin twitch. Cicadas are buzzing in his ears, or maybe it’s his pulse, his blood, he can’t even tell. Everything he hears is that same humming buzz. He smells her musk again and tastes honey on his tongue as she cups his balls, gives them a roll in her palms and Sam squeezes his eyes shut and moans, because it’s all he can do.

The pressure of her hands leaves heat behind. All the blood is draining from his arms, his legs and face, collecting where she fondles, coloring him cold around the edges. Sam struggles to remember where he is, more than just hauled off into the woods like road kill. He fights to pick out details and hear anything other than her, feel anything but the fire in her fingertips. He desperately wants the cool leather of the Impala under his body right now, with Dean behind the wheel singing bad rock and the world blitzing by at 80 mph. He wants to be home.

He draws his eyes open and the world becomes blown-out whites and oversaturated greens. The more his thoughts hover outside of his body, the more he can pretend she’s not starting to touch his cock. That she is not spitting into her palm and wrapping her hand around him and jerking him erect. He can pretend that he’s not getting hard and that trembling swell of need isn’t his own arousal.

Birds, overhead, look there’s birds. And dancing motes of pollen or gnats drifting through a shaft of sunlight, snowflake soft. He thinks he can just barely make out the silhouette of a plane in the bleached sky, through a gap in the canopy, and it can take him miles and miles away from this horror show. _Leaving ... on a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again—_

A flurry of plaid flies through the air as she tears off the shirt she’s been wearing. Sam is still staring at the trees as she rams onto him, and it sears. He gulps a blazing lungful of air, his limbs spasming inward to escape, protect himself or beat the life out of the creature, but he strains against the binds and only manages to chafe raw spots around his joints.

Up and down, she rides him bruisingly hard, slamming him into the earth. Twigs, bark, stones bite into his backside. He’s swollen and aching inside her, and Sam mewls, bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

She grunts in deep, guttural inhuman sounds, her palms pressed to his chest, fingers clawing into the muscle, and Sam has the absurd thought that since there’s no one around to hear her, hear them, are they really making noises?

White spots swim through his vision and he thinks he’s coming, whether he wants to or not. She screams. The sound tears through the forest and a flock of birds revolts out of the branches. Sam’s choking on inappropriate laughter when there’s a sudden reversal, a backwash of acid, shooting into him through his slit and down the length of his erect, still-mounted cock and _inside_. A flood of wrong heat spreads through his belly and he’s rendered blind from the pain.

This time, it’s Sam who screams.

He screams until his world telescopes into a single point of black burning punishment and then disappears altogether.

The paleness of the light makes Sam think of morning.

Funny thing is—well, there’s nothing funny about the situation but Sam has to recognize the twisted freakishness of it all, and that’s saying something given his history—is that there isn’t so much pain anymore as much as systemic discomfort. He hears the ambient shush of wind. Sullen gravity pulls at his entire body, a pressure that smothers like cement. Sam reads it as exhaustion. And he’s alive. Christ on a cracker, he’s alive.

He doesn’t know if he should be relieved that he made it through the night, or not. But he did. Something is sniffing his hair, though. There's wet all over his face and smoke in his brain, and something is huffing garbage breath in his ear. 

Sam's surroundings come into slow, rippling focus. His mouth tastes of metal and bile, so dry he wants to lick the damp from his lips but he can't get his tongue to cooperate; it's stuck to the roof of his mouth.

It takes every ounce of his energy to turn his head an inch, maybe two, to figure out what's sharing his air and he sees a pointed snout, fur the color of a smudge. Beady eyes. Whiskers. Slowly, his brain comes back online.

Opossum. And it's stealing his breath. _Stop stealing my fucking oxygen, you fucking giant rat._. He tries to draw a decent lungful of air to yell at it, scare it away, but there's no room. His chest is full and tight and numb. Sam can't shift his arms or legs, but there's movement in his middle and he's not doing it on purpose.

He can't budge his tongue but when he casts his gaze down to his bare chest, to the landscape of his naked body, he sees his skin twitching. It's roiling with wormish things under his flesh and there are places where long thin twigs have erupted from the surface, stretching dark lines to the sky. For a moment he can’t breathe. Not a gasp, not a sigh. He’s seven again and the shtriga is leaning over him, with its smeared face and fleshless fingers, sapping his strength, inhaling his life away. Sam’s heart threatens to explode through his ribs, and his inner seven-year-old self wants to cry.

There is sudden, ungraceful motion somewhere in Sam’s periphery and the opossum freezes. Not even its nose twitches. As if Sam isn’t terrified enough, they have company.

The animated fibers beneath his skin—haustorial roots like mistletoe, Sam’s brain spits out—scintillate harder, skittering painfully across muscle, and a moan slips past his lips, dislodged from his throat. He swallows thickly around a squirming lump. 

“You’re not dead,” she says, might even have sounded a touch surprised. Sam never did die easily, but that doesn’t seem like such a perk right now.

“Then kill me,” he manages, though the words barely squeeze out.

The movement under his skin ceases and it nearly startles him with its absence. His body still itches with phantom misery. She turns a hawkish gaze on him, and whatever surprise he’d felt turns to dread. She picks her way over small fallen branches, leaves crushing under her feet as brittle as the quiet in the woods. The birds have stopped singing, and the opossum is still there, petrified, hovering by Sam’s left temple.

“No,” she says simply. And Sam thinks it might be the cruelest word he’s heard in a very long time. He’s filling with a leaden weight, the fading of hope, the awful sensation of his skin sinking into the ground beneath him, around stones and worms and fallen acorns. The sun is brightening, but his extremities are turning dead and cold, especially the tip of his nose.

She reaches his side and stands still for a second, breathing audibly in the strange silence. Her eyes flick, and the opossum ambles away, impossibly unhurried. She lifts a hand and brushes a palm over the tips of the branches that have grown from Sam, a yard tall. It almost tickles; gentle, like breath on eyelashes. Her fingertips travel the length of one branch, a caress, all the way down until they touch the genesis, the spot where it has sprouted from his torso. Sam follows her with his eyes; he can’t resist it though he wants to, God, he wants to.

There’s the bite of hurt as she pinches her fingers together. Then a snap, the twig breaks. Sam wails.

Dazzling pain explodes in his abdomen and the universe spins. There’s another snap and more pain, in his thigh. Again in his chest. He arches his back throughout it all and feels himself ripping from the earth. He smells blood in the air, blood and the loamy scent of the woodland floor. A half dozen sprigs, she collects, until Sam is sweating and panting, his chest hitching with sobs, and the network of roots under his skin have churned so wildly in protest, they’ve chafed him raw inside. His lips are warm with his own blood, coughed up with the sobs.

All he wants is for it to be finished. His body is a foreign thing; it’s hers, and the forest’s. But unjustly, the pain is all his. There’s nowhere to go but down, into the leaves and the earth, into the brown and the green. _Stop beating, heart. Stop thinking, brain. Just ... stop._

And then his phone rings. 

The muffled electronic hum of “Smoke on the Water” issues from somewhere in the tangle of his jeans, still wrapped around his knees. He somehow feels the vibration of it, or maybe it’s just a ghost sensation. He knows it should be there, so it is.

The nymph-creature cants her head, taps the fistful of sticks in her hand against her shoulder, something almost thoughtful tweaking her features. Bending, she fishes through his pocket until she finds Sam’s cell. It sits in her dirty palm, and Sam expects her to crush it. Or throw it across the glade or let it ring and ring. But she hits a spot on the screen with her thumb and Dean’s voice fills the air, louder than it should, cutting shrill and clear as a clarion. He’s shouting Sam’s name. The panic in his voice is blatant.

She scowls at it, at Dean howling expletives at Sam and demanding to know where he is and why he left the door unlocked and where the goddamned hell is he, fucking goddammit. Huffing, she drops the phone and it bounces against Sam’s cheek. Dean is still yelling.

The twigs rustle in her grip as she walks away, her footfalls fading into reemerging birdsong and the susurrus of branches in the wind. And Dean’s electronic tirade. 

“D...ean.”

“Sammy?! Is that you, where are you, what the hell, man—”

“Shhhh...ut. Up.”

“Where are you, Sam? What happened? Where are you? Don’t fucking do this to me again. Where. Are. You.”

Sam blinks slowly, spits out a gummy mouthful of blood. “Woods.”

“Sam, there are a metric shit-ton of woods around here! You’re gonna have to give me something more to go on than that, man, come on.”

He thinks very, very hard. Listens. Squints into the dimming sky visible between gaps in the trees. There’s nothing. It’s the same as every other parcel of forest in Pennsylvania. Except that it’s probably got pieces of Sam rotting into it by now.

He’s quiet too long and Dean hollers again, his name, more foul invectives, promises of retaliation, until Sam still can’t formulate something to say and Dean’s voice turns plaintive. “Sam? Jesus, Sam, say something ...”

Sam shuts his eyes, moves his lips, and pushes out the only sliver of memory he thinks will be of any use. “Plane. Flight path. Under ... it.”

“All right all right, you’re by the airport. Awesome, Sam. _Awesome_.” Dean’s voice bobbles, like he’s talking and running at the same time. “You hang in there, brother. I’ll be right there. Right there.”

A leaf drifts through the warm air and skitters across his forehead.

“Sam? Say something. SAM.”

 

~end...?

**Author's Note:**

> This began as an amorphous possible fill for the Kink Bingo Card but it ended up fitting none of the squares, so let's call it the 'rape/noncon' H/C Bingo square. HEAVY on the H! C to come...?
> 
> Concrit wholly welcomed! Just no ass-hattery, please.


End file.
